


In Memorium

by Kedreeva



Series: The Lions of Rome [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than thirty years after the events of When Rome's in Ruins, Derek and Stiles visit someplace special for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memorium

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read all the way through When Rome's in Ruins, and especially to those of you who asked questions which require ficlets for answers. I hope that you all cry happy tears.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

            They sit in the parked car for a long time, the only sound between them the steady whir of the air conditioning. At first Stiles had watched Derek, waiting, but now he tracks the slow procession of people passing by their vehicle. Derek watches them too, eyes ticking over the somber clothing and tight smiles. He does not look where they are headed.

            "You don't have to go in," Stiles says softly, glancing at him sidelong.

            Something akin to a rueful smile twitches at the corner of Derek's lips for just a fraction of a second. "Yeah," he replies. "I do."

            Stiles' smile tells Derek that he already knew what Derek would say, so instead of delaying the inevitable, Derek sighs and reaches for the door handle. A second later Stiles follows suit, and Derek pauses long enough to watch him lock the doors and move to Derek's side of the car. When Stiles offers a thin hand, speckled with age and softened by time, Derek takes it gently. Only then does he have the strength to look up, toward their destination.

            The Arena before them is huge, sprawled so far from end to end that Derek cannot see one end while looking at the other. The entire place could be considered a work of art, with arching doorways and soft curves, constructed of shining metals and iridescent stone. Just looking at it leaves a sick feeling in the pit of Derek's belly. The pressure Stiles squeezes into his hand is the only comfort which allows him to take the first step.

            Around them the crowd flows like sluggish water. Hardly anyone speaks, except for parents leaning in to remind their children to behave. Stiles' presence draws more than a few open stares; of all the hundreds of people trekking toward the beautiful building, he is the only full human. At least, Derek thinks with the barest flicker of a smile, the black suit he is wearing does not stand out like the white used to do. Derek squeezes his hand back.

            It doesn't take them long to reach the entrance, though it is just as daunting as the first time he walked in through the front of an Arena with Stiles. Derek's eyes flick up to the huge, wide stone arches as they pass under, gaze flicking over the names carved into every inch of it. Along the walls, on the outside, are more names, all carved into the building like an afterthought. They hadn't always been there, but somewhere in the last two years the water-soft scent of fresh-carved stone had dissipated from the air.

            Passing under the archway feels like entering another world and a shiver runs down Derek's spine.

            Inside, the Arena is quiet; not silent, but quiet, the murmur of voices easy on his ears. All around him mill others of his kind, some staring upward in wonder, some reverently touching thousands of names scribed into the walls around them, some holding loved ones while they cry. Derek's throat closes up on anything he might say, but his feet find one step, and another, and another as they pass through the hallways that once belonged to human crowds.

            The pathway down below is not crowded, or if it is, the flow does not stop such that Derek even notices. It seems like only seconds between the front gate and the moment Derek's shoe first touches cold tile. It should have been sand, _used_ to be sand, he thinks as he steps into the pit for the first time in almost thirty years. The smell of sand and blood and fear has been scrubbed clean, faded with time and covered by reconstruction.

            This is the largest Arena in the entire NAS, Derek thinks, gaze rising skyward to where there should have been metal netting closing supers into a tomb together. Now it is open to the clouds, open for the flighted supers that visit this memorial. Above, where the stands once held jeering humans, Derek can see a pair of dragons, head bowed in respect. Further on, a small flock of gryphons, a manticore, a dainty pegasus, all holding unnaturally still.

            The soft squeeze of Stiles's hand in his draws him back to the pit floor, and his gaze catches on the monument at its center. It is cast in bronze, a replica of a hand-carved figure, one Derek would recognize anywhere; it is an alpha werewolf in full shift, drawn up on its haunches with long jaws raised to the sky in an endless howl. He knows the howl, can hear it ringing in his ears at night, chasing on his heels when he runs.

            It is his own face carved into the bronze, his own silent howl which mourns the loss of every name carved into all the surfaces of the Arena everywhere around them.

            He doesn't notice he is crying until Stiles reaches to embrace him and Derek finds his cheeks are wet against Stiles' shoulder.

            It is several minutes before Derek finds the strength to pull away, wiping uselessly at his eyes. Stiles doesn't say a word, just offers him a reassuring smile. Derek takes a steadying breath, and then he turns to face the memorial once again.

            There are others surrounding the base of the statue, but they pull aside when they see him approach. He looks at them and can see that they recognize him, even decades later, even in human form. None of them speak a word, but they watch as he moves forward, as he reaches the plaque beneath the statue.

            In the entire Arena, it is the only surface except for the floor that has something other than names scripted onto it. Here, at the very heart of the memorial, is the only message.

_In remembrance of all the lives which were taken,_

_And in honor of all those which were freely given,_

_May these walls forever keep safe your names_

_And may the Sands be long behind us all._

 

            Derek's throat tightens as he runs soft fingertips over the short list of names raised into the metal underneath the words. He does not know them all, but he knows some of them. His fingers trace over one of the last- Kitara Perth. These are the names of the supers whose lives he had personally ended. The names of the people who had given completely of themselves to ensure the freedom of the others.

            His eyes close, and a moment later he feels a soft nudge at his wrist. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself surrounded by the others, all of them with tears in their eyes but smiles on their lips. Beside him, a young wolf stretches out one hand, brushing her knuckles against his arm in a gesture of comfort.

            "Thank you," she murmurs, and the sound is startling in the absolute silence that had descended. "This is my first time in an Arena, because of what you all did."

            The words break whatever has been holding him together, and it is only the press of the others crowding close which keeps him on his feet. The pressure of grief that had been building eases with the comfort of their presence and the knowledge that whatever else he had done, this is a part of it now. Each survivor surrounding him now, each child whose skin had never been fight-scarred, each parent who had never had to have a child torn from them; his actions are a part of them all.

            He doesn't know how long it takes to find his calm again, but when he does, there is something inside of him that has been missing for years. What he has been unwilling to give himself, what he has been unwilling to allow anyone he knows to give him, these strangers have gifted to him without hesitation or reserve.

            Forgiveness.

            He steps away from the memorial, wiping his eyes. The ever-present tightness of guilt in his chest is gone, leaving him room to breathe as he walks back to the edge of the pit. Stiles is waiting for him at the exit, and he offers his hand without a word. Derek takes it, holding tight, and steps out of the Arena for the last time.


End file.
